"Little" Sister Pt. 06

In the morning, we went down to the boat. It was a very basic flat bottomed boat, with a small motor. Sarah did not like the motor, but liked rowing even less. We went down to the inlet below the knob, then came back to the pier. Two thirds of the time, or more, was coming upriver, against the wind. We barely made it back indoors before the rain came.

It was another sobering time. Had the rain come a day before, we would have been caught on the knob. Had it come three hours later, we might have died. Perhaps not. I did have rain ponchos and emergency food, but getting back before dark would have been chancy at best. There were no lights to serve as a beacon. Perhaps we could have found shelter. "Perhaps" was not comforting.

Sarah was comforting. While I had been doing business things, Sarah had stacked an impressive pile of firewood. We went through a chunk of it that afternoon. Still, I was able to show her something. She had heard of marshmallows, but not the kind I meant. Her marshmallow was a wetland flower. I dug out a rather mashed bag of the white kind. Sarah quickly caught on to the idea of toasting them in the fire. We stuffed ourselves on marshmallows and wound up skipping dinner.

The next day was our last full day. The sun was out, but everything was soaked. Next time, rubber boots. It was my first chance to check my laptop and other gear at the main house. I was lucky that the wind had blown away from the window, because there was no glass and the shutters were wide open. The trip was becoming a catalog of stupid. As it was, the laptop was just a bit damp.

Crossing my fingers, hoping that sleep mode would have prevented any real damage, I unhooked from the cat five cable and took it to sit near the fire, but not too close. I forced myself to wait an hour before I tried to start it up. Sarah made us a big breakfast to make up for skipping dinner, which passed the time. Once I determined the laptop was functional, I took it back to the antennae. I finally could check the weather. An hour later, with much of our gear still in the small house, Sarah and I boarded the boat and headed for civilization.

What kind of idiot did that kind of thing for fun? Chapter 27 -- Ticking Clocks

Since I was back a day early, a lot of people did not know I was back in town. What was interesting was patrolling the exceptions. They came in three flavors—in-company senior, in-company junior, not from FDC. Since I had administrator privileges, I read the email stacks of some that had not messaged me.

For example, Vivian had several queries when I would be back. She replied that she understood her job, so she was good for a few days on her own. Veronica would query back, asking what they were doing that would get them in trouble. One of Sean's people, Howard Cockerham, was completely out of his depth. The other, Richard Harold, was running his area as if I did not exist. I was unsure which was worse, but neither was good.

Sean talks about the expressions on his manager's faces, when they are put to the test. Often the test is unfair and there is no winning action. Trekkers know this as the Kobayashi Maru scenario. There is no winning play, unless you cheat. Captain Kirk cheated, which is an event of its own. It appeared that I had plucked one of Sean's people from both sides of the scenario. That was food for thought.

Personnel decisions are one of Sean's major strengths as a businessman. He grades at genius level for selecting people from the field, Sheila being just one example. I did not target that high. Decent results would be enough. So far Veronica was producing them for me. I decided to trust my feelings at least that far. This meant giving Veronica her head. While this was twenty degrees of scary, I went with it.

The other side of Boston's coin was Security Services. Richard Harold was a retired Military Police First Sergeant. All of my military people deferred to him habitually. To some degree I liked that, but he was taking things a bit too far. When I got back to Boston we would see eye to eye, or he would be walking home.

In Concord, I had the opposite problem. No one wanted to take charge. No wonder both sides of Boston was growing faster. Howard Cockerham was an excellent record keeper, but he could not decide which fork to use. I needed someone to tell him what to do, all day, every day. In other words I needed someone like Veronica, but with a Granite State accent.

All this was first impressions, from a single week of sabatical. Still, I was fairly confident of my ground. Of the two, I expected Concord to take longer, so Johnson and I heading for Boston. I hoped for a quick fix, because I could at least hope that First Sergeant Harold would recognize me as his command authority.

On the road, I contacted Gerald. He was full of theory, but not so much practical help. This was a common issue between us. Finally he said, "Stop worrying about it. Channel Sheila and you'll be fine. Most people I would tell to channel Sean, but you've been doing that all your life. Sheila is the one you need to focus on."

That made entirely too much sense. Gerald once said that Sheila could deliver a thirty minute briefing in fifteen seconds. She could verbally cut you to ribbons, without raising her voice. You might not get her sharpest point for a week. In a way, it was complimentary. Stupid people would never get it all. Gerald also said that soft handling fools was not one of Sheila's skills.

Put like that, what I needed to do was obvious. When I arrived in Boston, I spent an hour with Veronica. Mostly she told me what she wanted to do, and I told her what resources I could let her have. As I left, I told her that I liked the direction we were going. Then I corrected myself. I said I liked the direction she was steering.

My meeting with Richard Harold took almost as long. Rather than talk about what we were doing in Boston, I picked his brain about how to get things rolling in Concord. Not only did he have a ton of leadership training, he also knew Howard Cockerham. I always have my phone on dictation. This was one occasion where I was very glad I did.

Richard's perceptions reinforced most of mine, but his were more structured and systematic. He gave me several signs to watch for and tips for when they happened. It was time well spent. As I left, I told him I had the right man in his job. He could stop trying to impress me. If that did not compress a long conversation to two sentences, I did not know how to do it.

For everyone's morale, I handed Veronica and Richard a couple of gift cards to Gino's Deli. They could get lunch catered in. It was the way Sean would have handled it. He was fond of paying for a round he did not stay to drink. Instead, I indulged in a chocolate shake. What I had just done was easy, relaxed, almost fun. What waited in New Hampshire was going to be work.

Since it was already afternoon, I decided to sleep over in my Nashua apartment. This presented a problem, since I had a driver. I tried to put Johnson up in a Motel Six, but he refused. I had to suppress a smile, because I expected him to do exactly that. He slept on my sofa and I promised to find an apartment with a guest room.

This proved remarkably easy. I called the building manager. She told me she had a couple that wanted to buy a house, but had five months left on their lease. She was willing to let me move to that apartment, provided the paperwork costs were covered. Reading between the lines, she wanted to give the newlyweds a break. She could eat six months on my lease, because I would be signing a twelve month lease on a higher rent unit. Lost in all this was one detail. It was a penthouse apartment.

Two days later, in Concord, we went through a lot of this again. I took over four months of a graduating student's lease, decorated in Early American Garage Sale. She was a Criminal Justice major, so I gave her Richard Harold's number in Boston and thought no more about it. More time was spent on restocking the pantry. I sent Johnson back to Nashua to supervise the change of apartments.

Suddenly, it was Friday night. Elspeth was in Boston on a family thing. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do til Monday and no one to spend time with. For me, this was uncharted territory. During seven years of college and grad school, Friday was a study night. If I went out, it was on Saturday, and the "if" was a big one.

On a whim, I called Adele Cabot. You can imagine the conversation, "It's Friday night, my guy is overseas and I have nothing to do." Adele was amused. She promised to have someone call me. Call me gullible, I never expected it to be the Governor.

That was how I acquired an invitation to a Republican fund raiser. Go figure that one out, since the Governor was a Democrat. The guest speaker was my old friend Ann Coulter. There was an almost electric shock when our eyes locked across the room. About five minutes later, a polite young man came by and asked what I had been doing for the last three years.

That was about as loaded as a question can get and still be innocent. I gave it to him in time line version—Dartmouth grad student, wedding preparations, wedding, Dartmouth trained seal, starting FDC, paroles and pardons, Beacon House, South Boston, Nashua Alderman, Cloudrest, investigative services. As I spit it out, I was thinking, "Damn girl. Busy enough?" The young man had a similar reaction, "I only wanted three years." I don't think he believed me when I told him it was only the highlights.

After that is was cold Chicken Kiev, with limp salad and cheap Chablis. Before the coffee and deserts came out, the New Hampshire Republican Chairman rose to make the introduction. I zoned out. Ann Coulter rose and gave her speech. That lasted through coffee and dessert. I was beginning to think of leaving when I heard my name.

Ann was introducing me to the guests. She mentioned both my degrees, the famous wedding, my Alderman position, both my companies, even Cloudrest. She concluded that I was a frequent guest on Sean Hannity's show and asked me to stand. Blushing like a virgin girl in a boy's locker room, I rose.

Ann said, "Imposing isn't she? How about a debate?"

The clapping would not stop til I was at the podium. When I could ask for silence, I said, "I have no idea why Governor Sheehan suggested I come here. I'm not a Republican. On the other hand, I'm also not a Democrat. Maybe she expected Ann to scare me into the Democrat's arms—she's done that more than once, you know. Maybe she was expecting you to run me for federal office and keep me out of the Court. Lord only knows what she does now, with both houses against her." That bought me a few laughs.

I continued, "Ann and I met backstage at the Sean Hannity TV studio. Our segment was canceled, so we had an hour to talk. I did what comes naturally. I stuck my silver foot in my mouth." More laughter. I could play this crowd. "In any event, my fiancé is overseas, so I had nothing better to do than bore all of you. What do you think? Is a lesbian-leaning bisexual entertaining?" That brought no applause and little laughter.

Ann took the microphone. "She has two Doctorates, with honors, from two of the best schools in the world. She orchestrated the most famous wedding in a decade, not involving Royalty. She started a company, which two years later employs over thirty people. Her bother did four years in the Army, as a grunt, and now runs a billion dollar corporation. Face it gentlemen, she is what both parties want, but rarely get.

"To business, five questions. Snaking reply. I'll give her rebuttal on the first question. You."

The five questions could have been better. Ann was asked about Islamic expansion in the Middle East. I was asked about Obamacare, which I corrected to the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. I would accept ACA, but give it some respect. Ann was asked about Republican Presidential chances in Florida and Ohio. I was asked about Title Nine, which has to do with women's sports.

Before the final question I called a pause. I asked Ann whether she wanted reply or rebuttal. She said to flip for it. So, with full formality, we had the MC toss a coin. I won reply. As a preamble, I was asked which Congressional District I was in. That was not a simple question. With appeals to some of the lawyers in the room, it was determined I could claim either of the two, but not both. After that was settled, the question was simple—would I consider running against Ann Custler?

I had to hand it to the guy, it was a question worthy of Sheila. Ann Custler was a not unpopular first term Democrat Representative. In the coming midterm election, she would be one of the Republican's targets, but a tough one. For one thing, she had beaten a three term Republican to get the position in Washington.

The question assumed many things—that I might run as a Republican, even though I had never registered as one, that I was electable and that the Party would throw it's weight behind me. To give credit to the people in the room, no one missed the implications. There was dead silence while I thought things through. In the end, it was obvious.

I said, "Sure. I will consider running. No promises." All hell broke loose.

Chapter 28 -- Course Change

The Concord Monitor Sunday edition ran my picture on the front page of the local section. The caption was, "No Promises", sub-captioned, "Dr. Richards will consider running." The story detailed my surprise appearance on stage at the fund raiser, connections to Ann Coulter and Sean Hannity, my college and business background and my status as Alderman in Nashua. I have had worse coverage.

I mentioned before that New Hampshire is a very politically aware state. Monday morning I was besieged by attention, only about half from the press. It quickly became apparent that I could no longer walk the Halls of the Capital in relative anonymity. If I spied a conversation across the room, three times in four it was about me.

I called Governor Sheehan. Rather than the switchboard, I was put straight through to her desk. To make a long conversation short, it was not her idea to push me toward elected office, but she wished me luck. On a more urgent subject, she promised her endorsement on a bill declaring Cloudrest a State Historical Site. More money for my growing non-profit restoration fund.

In related news, PBS was trying to contact me. Their long running show This Old House wanted a piece of the restoration project. That was a bit of a problem, since the main house was already parceled out for design competitions. Still, there was the odd single room building. They were interested in that.

No one had ever come up with a satisfactory explanation for the big room. The show's producer thought it would make a good wood crafter's shop. The big fireplace could be used for a wood drying kiln. It was not exactly period, but it fit the original use of the land, plus it would be useful in the main building restorations. Several large trees had already been marked for cutting. Sawing them into boards and curing them on site would add to the drama of the reconstruction.

Dr. Singh at Yale thought that this was an excellent plan. He also suggested that the largest marked trees be girdled (a strip of bark removed all the way around) and left standing. In a year they would be ready for rough cut use. That was all very period to the house. Smaller trees could be thinned for building and finish wood, using more modern techniques.

Rather than give a full course in frontier house construction, it suffices to say that load bearing timbers would be needed. These timbers might have a two foot square cross section. They could be taken from the heart of, say, a two hundred year old native hardwood. Five such trees were already marked for removal on the future path from house to pier. Reluctantly I gave approval. About a dozen smaller trees would also be harvested. Those I reserved for future use.

Elspeth actively enjoyed the dance of the many, sometimes competing, interests in Cloudrest. I left things to her while I went back to Concord. There, once again, I was confronted by a problem. I had several very good order takers on site, but no order givers. In The Devil wore Prada, Miranda Priestly gave orders with a wince, a frown, a pursing of the lips. I may have worn Prada, but Miranda Priestly was no role model of mine. Instead, I looked for someone with the drive and gumption I needed to run the office.

My problem was that, for the first time in my life, I was popular. In Concord, New Hampshire, I was recognized as a person of influence. If I called the Governor, she took the call. If I told the Republican Committee so-and-so, they would make it happen. Everyone wanted to be the one that made me happy. Mostly it sickened me. I knew toadies and ass kissers from high school and loathed them. It made no difference that it was my ass they wanted to kiss.

I wasted three weeks wading through the soup of wanna-bees and sycophants. The time was not wholly unproductive. If nothing else I was the source of decisions the office needed. The next full legislative session was in September. The chaotic state looked like it might continue til then.

When I received a call from an old friend, Morgan Robertson, it was like water in the desert. Morgan was a three term State Representative and two term State Senator. Short of Governor, there were no more rungs for her to climb, at least in New Hampshire. I had a good idea what she wanted.

Among the perks of being in politics are easy reservations at popular restaurants. I reserved a table in Morgan's name at Angela's, a better than average Italian restaurant. I could have tried for a reservation in my own name, which probably would have worked, but I would be guaranteed a gallery of reporters, lackeys and information brokers. As a State Senator, Morgan was ensured a place, but without as much fanfare. It sort of worked. She also had spotters watching her movements.

I had pre-ordered chef's choice antipasto, pasta prima-vera with shrimp and chicken diavlo. The agnolotti créma rosa was coming to the table as we were seated. This was fortunate, since it is considered more impolite to interrupt actual dining. As long as there was food in front of us, we had a buffer.

We nibbled on seafood half moons, while the staff brought us iced tea and diet soda. Morgan gave off the impression that she wanted a cocktail, or two, but was restrained by the public setting. Before long, I offered her the choice of chicken or seafood. She chose the shrimp, so I took the chicken diavlo.

Morgan made her confession over coffee and cannoli. She planned to retire from state politics. My first instinct was to offer condolences. My second was to inquire why. I went with the third impulse. "Do you have anything lined up?"

Sheila would say, "Listen for the Maestro's tap." She means look for the driving motivation. Morgan was putting out frustration. My first impulse was that she was leaving blind. Morgan had called me, which said something. She may have been fishing for a job. She may have been turning to the only sympathetic voice in a hostile town. She may have been following her instincts blindly. Whatever the reason, I was the answer.

For some reason, I flashed on a Tom Selleck episode of The Rockford Files. Selleck's character, Lance White, is written as being too good to be real. He always spots the important clue. Everything times out exactly right. If something is missing, he walks right to it. So, he solves the impossible cases. Selleck is a good enough actor that you get a sense of weariness at all the adulation.

It was weird for me to be cast as Tom Selleck, but there it was. For me, the timing could not have been better. I consoled myself with the thought that Sean had recruited his corporate attorney in the DMV offices. Shit happens the way it happens. Before midnight, Morgan Robertson was not just a retiring state senator. She was also the prospective head of my Concord office and my new Chief of Staff. All I had to do was make it work.